


too close for comfort

by likecharity



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: (at least it starts out that way), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Mr. Robot Kink Meme, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Pseudo-Incest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 09:09:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8661025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likecharity/pseuds/likecharity
Summary: For the kink meme prompt "Mr. Robot jerks off watching Tyrell fuck Elliot."  He's gazing in Mr. Robot's direction with eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the sight of him so familiar that it's like staring at a blank wall. He's always here; why wouldn't he be here for this? He must forget for a second that Mr. Robot isn't the type to be a passive observer, because when he realizes that his hand is at the crotch of his jeans he almost chokes on a breath.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This...is _really_ not the sort of fic I thought I'd be posting after two and a half years of nothing at all...but......fine, I guess.
> 
> Also there's no reason an 8-word prompt should have resulted in something of this length but APPARENTLY I AM NEVER CONCISE.

Elliot's breath catches in his throat as he glimpses the movement out of the corner of his eye.

 _No_ , he thinks desperately, shutting his eyes tight, but when he dares to open them a moment later he's greeted by the sight of Mr. Robot standing at the foot of the bed.

"Go away," Elliot forces out through gritted teeth, reassured that he must not have spoken aloud by the fact that Tyrell doesn't even look up, fully absorbed in his task.

Mr. Robot merely smirks, arms folded as he glances down to where Tyrell's head is gently bobbing in Elliot's lap.

"Get out," Elliot hisses wildly, "I don't want you here. Not—not _now_ —"

"I think I have as much of a right to be here right now as you do, kiddo," Mr. Robot retorts. "Considering I'm the one who did most of the legwork with our friend here." He loosens his scarf, tossing it onto the floor along with his hat, and comes around the side of the bed. Elliot wants to shield himself from view but he can't; Mr. Robot can clearly see where Tyrell is suckling at the head of Elliot's cock. He tilts his head to one side appraisingly. "Do you think he'd be doing that right now if it wasn't for me? Least you can do is let me watch."

Elliot splutters, and Tyrell glances up, his blue eyes wide as he takes Elliot deeper into his mouth, his fingers stroking Elliot's hips as if to soothe.

"You should be grateful, really," Mr. Robot adds, pulling out Elliot's computer chair. "You think a guy like that would've looked twice at you if it wasn't for me? If I hadn't worked so hard to get him wrapped round my little finger?"

"Shut up," Elliot snaps. _Shut up, shut up, shut up._ He keeps thinking it like a mantra, and closes his eyes again, trying to ignore Mr. Robot even as he hears the creak of him sitting down in the chair, making himself comfortable. God, he can even smell him, some sense memory of the cologne his Dad used to wear. _Fuck. Stop it, stop it_ , he thinks hysterically, and realizes he's squirming so much that Tyrell has noticed.

"Elliot," he says softly, and Elliot keeps his eyes squeezed shut, knows that if he opens them he won't just see Tyrell's face looking back at him but Mr. Robot's too. "Elliot, it's okay. I can go slower, if it's too much. I know this is—a lot." Elliot starts to shake his head. He doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't want to go through with this with Mr. Robot here, but at the same time the thought of stopping is agony. Already he's aching to be back in Tyrell's mouth. His hips twitch lightly under Tyrell's hands. "Elliot, are you all right? Look at me."

Slowly Elliot lets his eyes flicker and open, and tries as hard as he can to ignore the self-satisfied grin he knows is on Mr. Robot's face.

"Good," Tyrell murmurs sweetly, "good. Keep looking at me."

His lips are wet. Elliot's hips twitch again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Mr. Robot's legs fall open, sees him lounge back in the chair. Tyrell dips his head, teases his tongue over the tip of Elliot's cock, his breath hot. Elliot squirms again, this time from pleasure. His gaze flits to Mr. Robot just for a second, just to see what he's doing—is he really going to stay? Watch this? 

Mr. Robot shows no signs of going anywhere. He's watching intently, his arms crossed, his legs spread wide, and his lips quirk when he catches Elliot's eye. Elliot quickly flicks his gaze back to Tyrell, and when he shudders it's not just because Tyrell takes him in his mouth again.

"Is he good?" Mr. Robot asks, voice low and rough.

Elliot ignores him, staring as Tyrell works his throat down, fitting Elliot's cock inside, maddeningly tight and wet.

"He looks like he's good," Mr. Robot goes on. "Maybe I'll give him a go." He pauses, just long enough to make Elliot's blood run cold, then adds, with a smirk, "Next time."

Elliot gasps as Tyrell eases back up with a slight, reluctant cough. "Fuck," is all he can manage, and he hopes it sounds appreciative.

Tyrell goes down again, swallows, takes Elliot's dick deep in his throat. Elliot can feel the flutter of it around him, can see the tears gathering in the corners of Tyrell's eyes as he looks up at Elliot adoringly. It's incredible, but something is holding him back from the edge—Mr. Robot, their attentive audience, his eyes glinting wickedly behind his glasses. Tyrell seems to sense that Elliot's distracted, pulling back, his lips slack and red and a little sore-looking. 

"Mm, you could make a real wreck of him, you know," Mr. Robot says, his tone almost conversational apart from the guttural nature of it. Elliot glances at him again, and he doesn't want to notice the bulge in the crotch of his jeans but he can't help it, not with Mr. Robot's legs spread like that, one large hand resting teasingly on his inner thigh. "Or maybe he'll make a wreck of you," Mr. Robot goes on, "let's see, shall we?"

Tyrell takes a deep breath. "I'm gonna use my fingers, okay?" he says, and Elliot looks back at him. He's fumbling with a little bottle of lube, and Elliot is a little alarmed to see that his hands are shaking slightly. "Tell me if it hurts. I wanna make you feel good." He's flushed, bright spots high on his cheeks, his eyes gleaming, and Elliot feels dizzy, still stunned by the fact that Tyrell even _wants_ to do this. Tyrell sits back and Elliot notices how hard he is, still in his silky designer boxers, now obscenely stretched around his erection. Elliot hasn't even touched him.

"Look at him," Mr. Robot snorts. "Can barely keep it together, he wants to fuck you so bad. I'd say it's pathetic, but—" He stops short, breathing in sharply as Tyrell trails his finger between Elliot's legs and brushes it against his hole, slick with lube.

Elliot's relieved Mr. Robot has finally shut up, glad he can focus on the way it feels when Tyrell gently pushes the tip of his finger inside. Tyrell smiles at him, his hair in his eyes, as he works his finger deep, and then Elliot can't handle the eye contact anymore and lets his eyelids flutter closed, his head falling back against the pillow. He lets himself relax and enjoy the strange sensation as Tyrell eases in a second finger, stretching him.

He's almost, _almost_ forgotten about Mr. Robot when he suddenly speaks again. "Jeez, he fuckin' worships you." He chuckles. "Or me, I should say. I guess both of us."

"Shut up," Elliot hisses, feeling his face heat with the words, the knowledge that it's barely even an exaggeration. He can't cope with it, Mr. Robot voicing all the things Elliot knows on some level but struggles to really believe.

He knows he's made a mistake when Mr. Robot sits up straight in his chair, leaning forward, snapping his fingers to make Elliot start and look at him. "Listen, kid, you should be fucking grateful I'm even letting you experience this," he snarls. "Do you know how easy it would've been for me to be the one in your position? I could've got mine and you would've woken up in the morning, all sore with none of the satisfaction. I could step in right now, and it'd be over for you like _that_."

"No," Elliot pleads instantly. The thought of dissociating right now is too awful; missing out on the rest of this, not feeling Tyrell's cock inside him, not getting to come...

Mr. Robot fixes his eyes on him, his jaw set hard. "So say thank you."

Elliot wants to tell him to fuck off, but then Tyrell's fingers curl a little inside him and all he can do is gasp. He stares at Mr. Robot blankly, shuddering, barely able to think. "Thank you," he breathes. They're the only words that come to mind.

He hears a small, surprised huff of a laugh and his eyes re-focus, sliding back across to Tyrell. "My pleasure," Tyrell says, smiling bashfully.

Elliot goes tense. If he keeps talking to an invisible third person in the room, this isn't going to end well. He has to keep his head; remember that Mr. Robot's not actually here, that as real as this feels he's _not_ actually sitting mere feet away, his lips curling slowly into a dirty smile as Tyrell leans in to kiss Elliot. The kiss is deep and Elliot feels like he's barely hanging on. He tries to lose himself in it, in the taste of Tyrell's mouth, but he can still feel Mr. Robot's presence, lurking beside the bed, tugging him back every time he starts to fall.

Tyrell slides a third finger alongside the others and Elliot can't help moaning into the kiss. 

"You feel so good," Tyrell whispers, and Elliot can hear the arousal in his voice. "You're so beautiful. God, I need to fuck you."

Elliot flushes. "Hear that?" Mr. Robot says mockingly. "He _needs_ to. _Needs_ to feel your tight little ass around his dick. Like his life depends on it."

Elliot winces at the bluntness of the words, but then Tyrell's nuzzling against him, distracting him. "Are you ready?" he's asking, voice soft.

"Yeah," Elliot grunts. "I'm—yeah."

Tyrell pulls away, and Elliot makes a soft noise at the loss of his fingers. Tyrell smiles and reaches for the waistband of his boxers, maneuvering out of them on his knees, and Elliot watches, a little shy, as his erection is exposed.

"Phew," says Mr. Robot, voice cutting through the silence. "He's a big boy, Elliot. You sure you can take that?"

Elliot resolutely ignores him, watching as Tyrell reaches for a condom, tearing the packet and sliding it on. His hands are still not entirely steady, and Mr. Robot notices that too, Elliot's sure. Tyrell slicks more lube over the length of his cock and Elliot's glad for it, and a little surprised at not having to ask. For all that Tyrell seems unhinged, and Elliot might have imagined him to be brutish in bed, he is taking so much care and being so gentle that it's almost bewildering. 

"It's because he's so gone for you, kid," Mr. Robot offers, shifting in his chair. "Head over fucking Ferragamo heels."

Elliot shakes his head distractedly as Tyrell closes in.

"You ready?" he asks again.

"Yeah," Elliot bites out, impatient. Maybe once Tyrell's inside him it'll feel so good that he won't be able to focus on Mr. Robot anymore.

"Tell me," Tyrell says.

"What?"

"Tell me you want me to fuck you."

Mr. Robot barks out a laugh. "Oh, it's so cute. He's trying to be all commanding but really he's just so goddamn _needy_. He'll say please if you wait a minute."

Elliot does wait, not because Mr. Robot told him to but because he can't quite bring himself to say the words, and sure enough—"Please, Elliot," Tyrell says softly, fingers stroking over Elliot's hips, his thighs. "Say it."

Mr. Robot waves a hand as if to say _told you so_.

"I want it," Elliot chokes out eventually, face burning. "I want you to fuck me."

Tyrell beams at him, reaching up to brush his fingers against Elliot's cheekbone. "Say you want my cock."

Elliot knocks his hand away, frustrated, humiliated. "Give it to me," he hisses.

Apparently that's good enough, because Tyrell smiles and relents and finally he's guiding his cock inside Elliot, carefully pressing it in deep. Elliot feels it intensely, even the pulse of it as it stretches him. It burns a little, and he drifts his hand down to his cock as a distraction, curling his fingers around himself and stroking slowly, fading out the pain with more pleasure.

His head rolls to the side. He's gazing in Mr. Robot's direction with eyes half-lidded and unfocused, the sight of him so familiar that it's like staring at a blank wall. He's always here; why wouldn't he be here for this? He must forget for a second that Mr. Robot isn't the type to be a passive observer, because when he realizes that his hand is at the crotch of his jeans he almost chokes on a breath.

"It's okay," Tyrell murmurs, misinterpreting the noise and reaching to touch Elliot's cheek again. His hand feels soft and cool against the fever-heat of Elliot's skin and Elliot slides his gaze back to him with difficulty. "Stay with me. Feel it."

Elliot nods haltingly, heart racing. Tyrell's cock feels huge inside of him, thrusting shallowly, opening him up. He pets Elliot's face and his other hand takes Elliot's erection, his grip firm and sure. Elliot tries to relax into it—it really does feel good, better than anything he's felt in a long time. But out of the corner of his eye he can still see Mr. Robot touching himself, palming his dick lazily through worn denim. Elliot's fists clench around handfuls of the sheets.

"Is it good?" Tyrell asks.

All Elliot can do is nod again. He hears the sound of a belt buckle clanking and then a zipper and he startles, suddenly grabbing Tyrell by the back of the neck and pulling him in, kissing him; a desperate attempt to distract himself. Dragging Tyrell down causes his cock to shift inside Elliot, and Elliot makes a noise against Tyrell's mouth, but it's not loud enough to drown out the rustle of clothing, or the unmistakable sound of a fist wrapping around a slick cock, or the resulting long, low groan. _Oh, god._

He tries to hold Tyrell close, but Tyrell breaks the kiss and straightens up. The angle changes again and Elliot whimpers, his hands slipping down to rest uncertainly on Tyrell's thighs, his ankles loosely bracketing Tyrell's waist. Tyrell has stopped jerking him, gripping him tightly behind the knees instead, thumbs pressing into delicate flesh as he pumps his hips back and forth. Elliot's cock rests hard and heavy against his stomach and he can feel the wetness leaking from the tip. He can feel Tyrell's cock sinking in deep, slow, then easing almost all the way out, leaving a strange emptiness for only a second before he's filled again in one smooth stroke, making his nerves fizz like static. Elliot focuses hard on all of these sensations, eyes closed tight.

To his dismay, he can feel Tyrell begin to slow. "Am I hurting you?"

"No," Elliot manages, wishing he would keep going, fuck him so hard he won't be able to think straight and then maybe there'll be no more room for Mr. Robot in his head. "No, it's good." His voice sounds slurred.

"Elliot, look at me."

Elliot is afraid to; knows that if he does there's no guarantee he'll be able to keep his eyes where they should be.

"Elliot." Tyrell's voice is plaintive. "Please..."

"Don't be rude," Mr. Robot's voice cuts in suddenly, sending a shiver down Elliot's spine. "The man wants to look you in the eyes while he fucks you senseless. Give him what he wants."

Elliot opens his eyes warily and fixes them on Tyrell's, ignoring Mr. Robot the best he can, though in his peripheral vision he can see an expanse of bare skin that makes his heart skip a beat. Tyrell stares back at Elliot, beginning to thrust harder, fist working Elliot's cock at the same time. Before long his eyes drift shut, and Elliot continues to watch him for a while—that face, particularly striking when lost in pleasure...eyebrows drawn together, cheeks pink, reddened mouth open...

Elliot's eyes wander like he knew they would; he can't help it. He looks. Mr. Robot, jeans and boxers crumpled round his ankles, shirt rucked up, stroking himself in time with their rhythm. He thinks—for some reason—that Mr. Robot might look away when their eyes meet, but of course not. He's shameless, tightening his fist and bucking his hips up off the chair to fuck his own hand, staring right back at Elliot in a way that's almost challenging. Elliot's stomach curls but he can't seem to look away. 

"Don't just lie there," Mr. Robot snaps at him, hard cock sliding through the circle of his hand. "Show him what you can do. Come on."

Elliot glares but still finds himself lifting his hips, working them back and forth to meet Tyrell's thrusts, clumsy at first, grinding without rhythm, until Tyrell hisses out, " _Fuck_ , yes," and grabs both of Elliot's arms, flinging them outwards and pinning him by his biceps to the mattress. "Yes, show me, show me how you want it," he babbles, hips stilling to let Elliot do the work.

Elliot arches his back, higher and higher, tucking his calves under Tyrell's ass, until his dick is pressed against the hard plane of Tyrell's stomach. He rocks himself back and forth, head pushing into the pillows, chin jutted firmly out, eyes flitting from Tyrell to Mr. Robot, Mr. Robot to Tyrell—he grinds onto Tyrell's cock, squirming, his own cock trapped tight between them, leaving smears of pre-come on Tyrell's skin as well as his own.

"Oh, God...yes, Elliot, yes..." Tyrell is whining; his words slip into Swedish and back again, incoherent. His usually neat hair hangs in a sweaty mess over his eyes and he almost looks distressed.

Mr. Robot swears under his breath, hand moving so fast on himself it's a blur, and Elliot lets his gaze linger there until Tyrell lifts a hand to grab his face, the suddenness and force of it startling. He holds him by the jaw, staring at him hungrily, and starts to buck his own hips too, the two of them moving frantically against each other.

Mr. Robot won't let Elliot forget about him. "Fuck, I'm close, are you close, kiddo?"

"I'm close," Elliot sobs, and Tyrell gasps, fingers tightening on Elliot's jaw, thumb smearing over his lips.

"Me too," he groans, lifting Elliot's legs up over his shoulders suddenly, plunging his cock so deep that Elliot cries out, clutching helplessly at Tyrell's waist. 

Tyrell is staring at him, his expression intense, and it's too much but Elliot can't look away, little embarrassing sounds escaping his mouth each time Tyrell pounds into him. He's bent in half, thighs pressed to torso, his muscles burning. Tyrell kisses him messily and Elliot can't see Mr. Robot anymore, but he can hear his rasping breaths. If he concentrates, he can even hear the slick sound of his hand on his cock, over the slap of Tyrell's hips against Elliot's ass, over Tyrell's desperate panting and Elliot's own high, keening sounds. 

With the pleasure clouding his senses, overwhelming him, Elliot marvels at just how natural Mr. Robot's presence feels. It feels right that he's here, even though he knows somewhere deep down that it's anything but. He can no longer even imagine this happening _without_ him. For a second Elliot forgets that Mr. Robot hasn't been in the room right from the start; from the moment Tyrell pulled Elliot in to kiss him, already reaching for Elliot's fly, asking breathlessly, "May I—?"

"I'm gonna come," Tyrell moans now, "I can't—" he breaks off, his fingertips pressing hard into Elliot's cheekbone, his hips snapping back and forth and then suddenly stuttering. Elliot can see that he tries to keep his eyes open, tries to keep looking at Elliot, but he can't, overwhelmed by his orgasm, his eyelashes fluttering as he buries himself deep and comes.

He recovers quickly from the loss of control, almost apologetic as he removes the condom and then immediately turns his attention back to Elliot. Elliot is dazed, his legs flung apart and aching as he takes his throbbing cock into his hand and clenches around nothing. He looks to Mr. Robot and finds him in a similar state, eyes glazed behind his glasses, mouth open, hand twisting around his cock, so hard it looks painful.

"What do you need?" Tyrell asks urgently, taking Elliot's cock from him. "Do you need my fingers?"

Elliot nods faintly and immediately two of Tyrell's fingers are sliding into him, to the knuckle, going in easy, and he whimpers and nods harder, mouth open and dry and unable to form words.

"C'mon, Elliot," Tyrell murmurs encouragingly.

"C'mon, kiddo," Mr. Robot grits out, and Elliot trembles, feeling himself getting closer, pleasure buzzing maddeningly down his spine. Tyrell strokes his cock at a rapid pace, like he's more desperate for Elliot to come than even Elliot is, fucking him hard and fast with his fingers. Elliot can hear his own heavy breathing echoed by Mr. Robot, and as he goes over the edge with a cry he hears him say in a faint, strained sort of voice, "That's it, there you go..." The words urge him on, and his orgasm courses through him like a wave, Tyrell milking it from him eagerly.

As Elliot comes down, Mr. Robot is the first thing his eyes focus on, the shape of him sprawled and spent in the chair. He looks wrung out, wiping a wet hand on his t-shirt, his dick resting against his stomach and gradually going soft. They're both panting, trying to catch their breath.

"Elliot..." Tyrell's voice drags Elliot back to reality. He looks reverent. Elliot glances down at himself, sees his skin slick with come. There are white streaks of it over the ugly knot of scar tissue on his stomach, a few splashes reaching up to his chest.

Tyrell considers the mess, and then in a sudden movement, instinctive and primal, he's licking at it. Elliot flinches at the unexpected sensation and stares as Tyrell licks a jagged stripe up Elliot's stomach, gathering the come on his tongue. He looks at Elliot, unblinking as he swallows, and then his lips return to the scar, the scar that he has carefully ignored until now, his own terrible handiwork. To Elliot's surprise, he kisses it, soft and gentle.

The sound of a chair scraping jerks Elliot out of the moment and he looks up to see Mr. Robot getting to his feet, pulling his jeans and boxers back up, buckling his belt. His movements are swift, businesslike, and for the first time all night he won't look Elliot in the eye. Elliot feels a rush of something like panic as Mr. Robot gathers his scarf and hat from the floor. Some crazy, desperate, terrified part of him doesn't want him to leave. The part of him, he supposes, that conjured him up here in the first place. He wants to say something, but what? _Please don't leave me? Spend the night?_

And then Mr. Robot is straightening his cap and leaving without looking back, striding out of the apartment. Elliot hears the door shut behind him and that's it, he's alone with Tyrell.

Tyrell is gazing at him, sticky-mouthed and starry-eyed. 

"That was..." he says, and laughs softly, shaking his head. "I can't even find the words."

"Uh huh," says Elliot vaguely, his eyes on the empty computer chair.

"You mean it?" Tyrell asks. "It was the same for you?"

"Yeah," says Elliot, letting Tyrell crawl up the bed and come to rest beside him, even as he fights the absurd urge to hurry out of the apartment after Mr. Robot. He knows he wouldn't find him out there, or anywhere. He knows they won't see each other again until Mr. Robot decides the time is right. The thought makes anxiety settle in the pit of his stomach, heavy and making him feel ill. But he knows Mr. Robot will come back, eventually.

He always comes back.


End file.
